Not For Sale
by UnityInDiversity
Summary: One Shot: Temperance uses her marketplace theory when clubbing with Angela.


**Disclaimer:** If my name was Hart Hanson or perhaps Kathy Reichs it might belong to me, but alas it is not...

**Author's note:** I wrote this story some years ago with no specific character in mind. Re-reading it recently, I found that it might actually be something Brennan could be thinking, so I edited it a bit and let her 'tell' the story instead. Maybe it's out of character, I hope it's in, but that could very well be wishful thinking on my part. Let me know?

**POV: **Dr. Temperance 'Bones' Brennan

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**Not For Sale**

Reluctantly, I allow Angela to drag me into the dance club. She smiles at me, proud of her obvious victory. I sigh as I look at the mass of people crammed up in the narrow confines of the discotheque. It isn't that I don't like dancing. The thing is just that I've found over the years that dancing is usually not what people go to a club for. If it's not to get laid, it's to get drunk. Really drunk. Preferably both. While I prefer neither. Of course, I like a drink or two. Maybe even three, but I don't need to get drunk to have fun. I can have fun without having a gallon of alcohol in my body. Besides, I like to _know_ when I have fun.

I shift my eyes to the men at the bar, nodding their heads to the music and checking out the women on the dance floor. And that's exactly why I don't like going to clubs. I just don't want to be anybody's cheap thrill for the night, for every time I'm on the dance floor, I feel like I'm on a marketplace. The buyers, in close proximity of the bar and with a glass of beer in their hands, are inspecting the merchandise displayed on the dance floor. That's what it feels like to me. I realize this may sound absurd to anyone else. I know Angela certainly doesn't agree with me on this. She says she loves me, but that I'm certifiably mad. Nonetheless, it's how I feel.

Looking at the men that have gathered around the bar tonight, I know it's not going to be any different this time. Their attention is focused on the women on the floor. They're checking out their bodies, the sexy moves they are making, and they're no doubt deciding which of those 'bodies' they'll take home tonight. That is, if they drink enough alcohol to get the courage to actually go up to them.

I want no part in this, so I tell Angela I'm going to get a drink first, moving myself in buyer territory, so to speak. I guess I'm in need of some alcohol if she expects me to set foot on the dance floor tonight. I smile at the bartender, catching his attention with a quick wave. Then again, it mustn't be hard to notice me given that I'm surrounded by the other gender solely. I place my order and about a minute later I take the first sip of my Cosmopolitan. Normally, I'd order a beer, but since Angela introduced me to this apparently very popular cocktail, I occasionally drink it as well.

I lean back against the bar and try to spot Angela on the dance floor. I smile as I realize I'm almost doing the same thing as the people around me. The only exception being that I'm not interested in her sexually, or in any of the women surrounding her. Obviously. Well, I suppose it's not that obvious. I could be a lesbian. But I'm not. So, yes, obviously.

I stir my alcoholic beverage with the little cocktail umbrella the bartender has given me. I don't think it should even be there. The drink should be garnished with a slice of lime, not with a childish paper umbrella that has no function. I shift my attention back to Angela, or lack of, since I can't seem to find her in the crowd any longer. She must be on the floor somewhere, though. I know she's not in the powder room, for she has an unwritten rule that we go there together, at least the first time of the night. In there, she touches up her make-up and tells me about the 'hot guys' she's set her eyes on. She expects me to do the same. Even if I haven't found anyone worth mentioning to her yet, she wouldn't go there without me. I know that much.

Instead, my eyes land on a man with an outrageous sense of style. I can spot several tattoos on his bare arms and he has both ears and lip pierced. That, however, is not why he caught my attention. The simple fact that he's the only male on the dance floor, is. Or maybe I should say: the only male who is actually dancing. And not so bad, either. This is a good difference from what I usually witness. Although, I have to say I'm no expert when it comes to dancing, I can see he has rhythm. Just maybe tonight isn't going to be as bad as I dreaded it would be.

I suppose this discovery calls for a visit to the bathroom with Angela. I pour what is left of my drink in my mouth and place the empty glass back on the bar. Then, I make my way through the crowd and towards the restrooms, hoping to find Angela en route. Fortunately, I do and before long we find ourselves squinting at the horrendous TL light as we glance into the mirror.

"Have you seen that man on the dance floor?" I start.

Angela grins at me. "Man, he can dance."

So, she had noticed him, too. "Yes, very rhythmically," I acknowledge.

"Go dance with him, sweetie."

I look at her. "I'm not sure I can match his moves, do his routine."

"His routine?" Angela laughs.

Apparently, I just said something ridiculous. I have no idea. "What?"

"Just be yourself, sweetie. Just… smile when you approach him, okay? And have fun."

With that we split up, ready to hunt for our prey, as I have heard Angela call it before. I head back to the bar and order a beer. I devour the alcoholic beverage, quenching my thirst, and return the glass to the bar. Listening intently to the intricate beat of the music, I step onto the dance floor.

I try to move my body to the rhythm of the loud music. I'm glad that this is one of the few clubs that actually has good music. Lately, I've really gotten into this rap and hip-hop music. I once called it tribal, but Angela scolded me for calling it that. As I dance, I look around me, trying to spot the man that had caught my interest before the bathroom break. I, however, do not see him.

Feeling out of luck, I head back to the bar. I was planning to get myself another beer, but noticing I'm still the only female in male territory, I decide against it. I spot an empty stool at a table somewhere in the back and make my way over to it. Sitting down, I look at my watch and see that I'm at the club for a good hour already. Save for Angela, I still haven't spoken a word to anyone. The barman doesn't count. One can barely call that a conversation. The music is too loud for that. It could best be described as socially accepted gestures for ordering a drink. Just as I begin to wonder if the skilled dancer has left the club already, I see him coming my way. He stops at my table. Maybe Angela has sent him my way.

"You look like someone who enjoys a good Jack Daniels…" he says, handing me the shot glass.

"I do, thanks."

He grins. "I knew I was right."

"There is no way you could know that," I tell him, downing the drink.

He looks at me and frowns. "Do you go with a name, or just an attitude?"

Now it's my turn to frown. What attitude? I was just stating a fact. "My name is Dr. Temperance Brennan."

"Alright, Dr. Temperance Brennan, I'm Alex."

"Well Alex, thanks for the drink."

"You're welcome. So, I saw you dance," he continues. "You want to go back to the floor to show me some more of your sexy moves?"

Not him, too. This really was a marketplace. I shake my head. "I don't think so."

"What?" he says, looking like he has never been rejected before.

"I'm not for sale, Alex."

With a nod, he turns around and leaves. Angela shows up behind him, her hands on her hips. Evidently, she had been watching us from a distance. For some reason she looks mad. I'm not sure if her anger is directed at me. She walks up to the table and sits down on the stool across from me.

"What did you say to him?"

"Nothing," I tell her, slightly shaking my head.

"Bren?"

How does she always know? I hate psychology, as it is a soft science, but Angela believes in it and is certainly adept at applying it. I release a sigh and surrender. "He thought I would have sexual intercourse with him just because he paid for a drink. I told him I wasn't for sale."

Angela shakes her head in disappointment. "Not your market theory again."

"The metaphor applies here, Ange."

"Right," she responds and grabs my hand. "Sweetie, will you stop dissecting and just come to the dance floor with me?"

I nod and follow her. We start dancing, but it isn't long before Angela drags me to the restroom again. I comprehend she has spotted someone interesting across the dance floor. As she reapplies her lipstick, I try to explain my marketplace theory to her once more. I don't want her to get hurt. Maybe she finally catches on. The expression on her face, however, tells me I'm alone in my views.


End file.
